


Hidden Memories of the Past

by Melaena



Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Backstory, Gen, What happened at Mother's Vigil/Forsaken Village, What happened to Rost's family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15727170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melaena/pseuds/Melaena
Summary: Years before the Derangement and the Red Raids, a small band of Outlanders attacked Mother's Vigil in the Sacred Lands, taking hostages and killing many others. A well respected and honorable Brave led the Nora to retrieve the captives and return them home. His name? Rost, and this is his story.





	1. Chapter 1

Courage and skill walk a fine line. Even the bravest of hearts can fail or lose their nerve–but not in the Embrace. Losing your way or hesitating is deadly, even over-confidence can kill as fast as the machines. The strange device Aloy had found in the ancient ruins as a child offered her a unique view of the surrounding area. Tapping her ear, the tiny device illuminated around her its high-pitched whine dissipating. She scanned the field; within a thin-lined webbed matrix, the focus identified her foes. Machines outlined in violet light until the scan revealed the vibrant yellow glow of fuel canisters and weak points. 

Aloy swallowed a sigh. _Watchers and Striders_ , she thought, _still no Sawtooth, might as well stock up here_. 

Neither machine carried what she needed, but Aloy never shunned the opportunity to keep her reserves stocked. _Never know when it might come in handy_ , she reminded herself.

She waited, learning the paths of the three Watchers. Apart from their ability to blind her, Aloy had no fear of the Watchers; removing them usually the first step in her hunts.  Crouched low in the tall grass, Aloy watched the Strider. Clomping metal hooves carried the machine closer. She kept an eye on the Watchers, far enough away to take this stray down without incident.

High above on the ridge, Rost watched. “That’s it Aloy, slow and steady.”   All-Mother and the High Matriarchs had chosen him to guide and mentor Aloy, both outcasts of the Nora tribe, he’d dedicated his skill and knowledge to training her.

Down below, Aloy shifted; measured movements allowed her to pull her lance free of its strop. The Strider snorted; a strange affectation of a living beast. The sound cautioned her to remain silent. _Small moves_. She recalled Rost’s lessons when she was far younger.

 _“Aloy, stop wasting time. Follow.” He waited for her to catch up before continuing into the valley. “It’s one thing to hunt a beast, Aloy. It is another to hunt a machine,” Rost explained leading her through the tall grass. “A beast you can fool; but a machine learns. Take down one; others will come for you.”_  
  
_“Yes, I know.” Aloy’s attention wandered to their right. Her eyes widened at the metallic creature plodding toward them. Balanced on two legs by a long, articulated tail, the compact machine had no face, only a large eye lens that shined a brilliant blue. “A Watcher,” she whispered._  
  
_“Good, Aloy. You must learn to avoid its gaze if you wish to survive in the wilds.” Rost reached out to prevent her advance. “Small moves. Hush. Listen.”_  
  
_He’d done this before; taken her out into the valley to learn the sounds of the machines. The Watchers, although small, walked heavy; their wide feet displaced dirt and rocks as they moved. They chittered and groaned while walking. Stopping to search the surrounding area, the machine emitted a series of clicks and whines, its neck craned high, swiveling from left to right._  
  
_Rost kept still, his voice barely audible. “The Watcher whines long and low as it prepares to move on. When the machine turns, strike.”_

Aloy shifted, the Strider moving closer. The beast snorted again, bending his head toward the grass. It didn’t need grass to sustain itself, but again like its unnecessary sounds, the machine grazed on grass and plants.  

A slow exhale to steady her hand, Aloy locked her eyes to the Strider. _A little closer_ , she cautioned herself, _almost there_. The Strider so close Aloy could hear parts move under its armor. Pulling her hand and arm back, Aloy ground her teeth and stabbed the lance into the Strider, the machine shaking as sparks elongated into widening arcs. Limbs caved and sounds slowed, the Strider’s eyes lens dimming as it expired.

From his vantage point on the ridge, Rost nodded his admiration for her advancing skills clear as he spoke aloud. “Well done, Aloy. Well done.” Confident in her skills, Rost turned his steps toward home, Aloy could hunt without his hovering. The kills were hers, she’d need the resources soon enough. Once she faced the Sawtooth, another step toward whatever destiny All-Mother had chosen for her would be complete.

The sun hung low as he crossed the bridge, the day slowing dying. There was a time he would have searched for Aloy to bring her home before last light; he’d accepted she knew the way home and when to rest.

Rost climbed the cliff to the overlook. The valley had lost its beauty to Rost years ago, and only though Aloy’s eyes had he reawakened to the splendor of All-Mother’s gifts. The late hour painted the sky in pink and orange tones that melted into dark blues and purple; Una’s favorite sunsets. “You would like her Una,” he spoke to the wind, addressing his long-dead wife. “If I think on it, perhaps she is more like me and far too stubborn for her own good.” Thinking on Aloy and her ability to find trouble in the most benign places coaxed a laugh. “She reminds me of you. Soft arguments, never harsh and as with you- I almost always give in.”  

The heavy mantle of Una’s spirit rested on Rost’s shoulders; he allowed the long-shunned memories to envelop him as All-Mother soothed the day into night allowing her children rest.

l-l-l

Mother’s Vigil- 3018 (Two Years before the Derangement)

The wooden door slammed open and Rost carried his morning hunt across his shoulder. Una knew the routine well. Every morning before sunrise her mate woke and hunted in the early hours of the dawn he hunted for food, returning with enough for the day and for Una to prepare dried strips of meat he preferred.

“Alana,” Una called out to her daughter of six years. “Time to wake.”

Shifting her attention to Rost, Una caught his wide grin as he held out several wild turkeys and a few fish. “Enough to share if needed.” It was then she realized the squirming creature on his shoulder resembled their child, her long dark braided hair flopping around as she struggled. “She followed, but I did not know until I’d crossed the river. Alana knows she was wrong and heard my harsh words.”

A disbelieving brow met his hopeful eyes as he lowered their daughter. “You mean you spoke calmly telling Alana this was the last time you’d allow it. How many _last times_ have you cautioned Rost?” Una sent Alana to her bed and tried not to laugh when Rost shrugged.

“A few.”

She hummed in response. “A few, is it? You are far too lenient with her. I want our child to be strong of will not willful. Why do you allow it?”

He held back the sigh in his chest. Una understood what it took to live so far from Mother’s Heart and he hoped Alana would be more like Una than him. Alana should follow the teachings only a mother could provide, not join him unless she followed his path. He stepped closer, enveloping his wife in his arms. Breathing in the scent of her, he whispered. “She is a child; let her remain so for a few years more. Then we will guide her to grow older.” 

Una wriggled free and held Rost at arm’s length, her voice carried her displeasure in a whisper. “No, you will train her to be like you. She is clever and can learn from watching. Take Alana on your hunt, show her, and teach her as you have guided others.”

He laughed, grey eyes holding hers. “I did nothing but show you how to hunt; a skill you had within you, and a few Braves seem to follow me only because they prefer me to their own fathers. I am no teacher.”

Una huffed through her nose, nostrils flared. “ _Learning to hunt led me on the path to become a Brave. Discipline and focus turned from providing food and comfort to survival_. Those were your words, Rost. Alana will be a Brave, and you _will_ see it done.”

He shook his head without speaking and turned from her toward the door. “She will learn to hunt in time. I have the watch through the night. Storms approach from the north, be wary.” The heavy sigh left him without permission, leaving with the argument still clinging to the air troubled him. “Will you keep me in your thoughts?”

“Oh, Rost.” Una’s quickened steps moved her between the door and his body. She rested her hand on his cheek. “Always. May All-Mother watch over your steps when I cannot.” She stared into his eyes and smiled. “We will be here waiting.”  She brushed her lips against his before rested her cheek against him. “Until you return.”

l-l-l

Darkness fell quickly in the Embrace; the mountains far to the west blocked the sun’s path despite the height of the watchtower. The grassy fields and evening chill brought out the machines to their nightly toil. Earth and rocks churned under the machines as grazers mindlessly dug in the soil the lifeless glowing blue lights of their eyes dotting the wide field.

“Look at them,” said one awestruck Brave, leaning on his lance.

Rost pulled the weapon with a yank. “Your weapon is not a staff to hold your weight, if it breaks what will you use?”

The Brave mumbled a quick apology, but Rost’s attention on the machines below heightened, and he sank in slow movements into a crouch. One grazer stopped, lifting its head. The constant chatter from the Braves behind him added to Rost’s mounting aggravation.

“All of you, quiet!” His harsh words silenced the group as another grazer joined the first, and then another. Their heads swiveled illuminating the night in blue light as if searching for something. And then it happened, slowly at first a blue light turned yellow. “Something comes,” Rost whispered rising to his feet. He removed the bow from his shoulder and pulled an arrow from his quiver. “Ready yourselves. They hear something. The change in eye lens color signals a warning.”

One behind him whispered a question. “Why don’t they run?”

“They have not learned to fear us.” Rost notched the arrow and exhaled, searching for the cause of the machines’ distress.

Screams filled the night to the south. “The village!” One Brave cried out, Rost turning his attention toward the commotion.   _Fire_. Stowing his bow he slid down the ladder and raced toward Mother’s Vigil, the Braves on night watch no doubt battled the blaze. _Una_ , his heart called to her silently, legs pumping faster and faster scaling rocks and ledges until the river came into view and his heart stopped. _Alana, where are you?_ Panting from his effort, Rost called to both his mate and child, his words barely audible. _This is not fire, but an attack_. Hovels burned, bodies laid where they had been struck, only a handful of Braves hurried from one person to the next searching for survivors.

Wails and screams of woe plagued the small village, the carnage he passed a blur to reach his home, finding his voice, Rost shouted for his family again and again, his eyes searching the lingering smoke for a sign of them both. “Una! Alana!” Three braves blocked his home, holding Rost back as he struggled. “Una!”

Frustration fought back and wrenched him free, but he’d arrived too late. He knew her even at the distance between them. Her dark hair was the same length as he held in memories, long enough for his fingers to caress in the darkness of their rest. Her clothes stained red, the last of her life leaving its mark upon her body.  “Una,” he whispered, falling to his knees at her lifeless form. Despite the shouts around him, Rost heard nothing cradling his mate his arms, willing the tears of weakness to stay away.

His lips on her forehead carried his goodbye before placing her limp body on the ground to rest. Standing firm, he turned to face the men demanding an answer. “Where is my child?”

l-l-l

Rost and several others gathered at the fire while the few who survived prepared to travel to Mother’s Crown. The Braves tried to learn all they could from those who survived, most insisted on speaking to Rost directly. Twelve Outlanders attacked as darkness fell. Una and others stood in defiance, protecting the children and elderly from harm. One survivor thanked Rost for his mate’s sacrifice, but he could not offer a response. _Not when my child is in harm’s grasp_.

He learned that three Braves followed the Outlanders and likely had marked their path. Rost had seen Outlanders now and then, most who made it through the Nora’s patrols sought to hunt for pelts or boar teeth, but none had ever been this bold. Those that were captured had to be a burden, but Rost could see no reason other than cruelty for their capture, but the reasons meant little to him with Alana a captive.

“Outlanders did this? But why?” One man asked.

Rost’s jaw tightened. “Because they could. We need to go. If nine of our people still live, then we cannot delay. Who will follow?” Rost would not wait for first light; Alana’s return of deepest concern. He could track the Outlanders, but time would not aid their task. “We leave now before we lose the trail.”

Two would remain behind and see to their dead before guiding the rest to safety. Rost was sure the Outlanders would not return, but none wished to remain in the village. Taking only a few minutes to prepare, Rost and a small group of Braves followed the trampled grass north and east amid silent prayers to All-Mother for the safety of their loved ones.


	2. Chapter 2

Any Nora Brave knew the way through the Embrace. Even the less experienced could follow the trail of campfires until they learned the pathways. Despite the cloudy night, he still found the damaged path through the forest; the trampled brush and the large swath clear as they moved. “The Outlanders have all but lit the path they traveled.” Rost knew those following the group wouldn’t have bothered to mark their path. “A child could track this group.” His heart sank thinking on Alana.

He worried not for her fear, but for her will. If Alana was frightened, she would remain docile. If challenged, she might lash out and force her captors to react. _Watch over my Alana_ , he prayed, _see her kept safe All-Mother, guide her to remain calm._ Rost spoke under his breath to give the words life.“Alana, be strong. Know I am here, and wherever you go, I will follow until you are safe. I swear on my life I will bring you home-whatever it takes.”

Rost led the trek along the river’s edge as the trail continued east. Mother’s Crown lay to the south, but the trail ignored the turn at the ridge. “They continue east, but why?”

He’d been surprised when the party did not go west from Mother’s Vigil to Daytower, nor did they travel north to Dawn’s Sentinel, the trek east made little sense. If the Outlanders thought to disguise themselves as a Banuk tribe from the Frozen Lands, Banuk were hunters and would not bother with captives, they would have taken livestock or bartered. They had no need of slaves. _Why do these men travel east? There is nothing there but Devil’s Grief, a few machine sites between here and there, but they all work the land, there are no quarries only earth and water._

Rost halted his steps as the reason cleared in his head. “They want us to follow. Quickly, two of you return to Mother’s Crown. Gather as many Braves as will follow. We make for Devil’s Grief, tell them to expect a fight.”

l-l-l

Rost held the braves outside Devil’s Grief. Hollowed structures of twisted metal and stone provided far too many areas to search. His knowledge of the structures wasn’t enough to plan a coordinated strike and Rost suggested four braves scout each of the main structures and report back. He warned the other three to search for fires, torches anything to suggest a camp. He would take the farthest area, the brush and ground cover sparser than the other sections; his tracking skills were far more developed.

The machines hadn’t yet ventured this far, the deep water to the east kept them away. The absence of the moon’s light provided the perfect cover for his advance. He chose three others; each with the skill to move in near silence. Stealth was key; none could risk alerting the Outlanders to their presence even though Rost suspected the Outlanders wanted to be found.

His eyes had adjusted to the night; the sky above his only witness. A rustle to his right halted Rost’s advance. Slowing his breathing he waited crouched and still. In the silence a quieted snort revealed a boar digging in the dirt.

The idea took root watching the animal in the grass. If he could frighten it enough to have it run in the direction he wished to travel, Rost could run, hiding his own movement with that of the large boar. A wind gust cut a path through the tall grass. _All-Mother approves_ , he thought, _then with her blessing-I go_. A rock near his foot would do. Taking aim in the dark, a gentle toss landed near the boar, startling the creature enough for it to move. Rost followed its path, closing the distance between them until the beast sensed him and the boar ran even faster its grunts and heavy treads sure to confuse anyone listening.

A quick smile crossed his face, and Rost sprinted through brush and around trees, until he reached the area near the farthest structure, skidding to a halt within a large swath of grass.

Fires glowed within, their muted orange and yellows cast shadows that moved and flickered with the wind. Armed men walked the paths and metal beams, two stood as sentinels high above, their heavy weapons pulled against their bodies, weighing their stance and slowing all movement. He dared not move too close, but the structure and the dark offered no relief in his visual search for Alana.

He tried to listen for signs of the missing, but all he could hear was the mocking laughter of the Outlanders as they talked. _I need to see she is well._ Despite his conviction, Rost could not bring himself to move closer, the thought of any one of the missing harmed because of his mistakes shifted his thoughts to his task.

 _The moment our presence is detected they will strike_. Rost considered their options. _We must take the two in the high reaches out first, but with care to keep from raising the alarm_. He dared not venture closer, eager to return and report what he’d found. _We must use distraction, draw them out towards our Braves,_ _and then free our people._ Caution required slow moves and quieted steps toward their camp; Rost unwilling to risk losing the advantage. The return to their camp took longer; Rost couldn’t help but turn back several times. He struggled between Alana’s safety and the need to be cautious in their approach. _Be safe, little one. I will find you._ When Rost reached the camp, he shared everything he had seen, troubled he carried no proof of the hostages to the group.

The plan unfolded in crude pictures drawn in loose earth. They would hunt as one; a silent descent of quiet justice against the Outlanders. The charcoal cover of night would give way to the dawn within a handful of hours, if the Nora hoped to rescue the stolen members of the tribe, they could not delay.

Rost spilt the Braves in two groups, he would lead the western flank through the tall grass and brush; Ebrem would take the other to the east, using the trees and rusted metal debris as cover. Upon breaching the threshold of the encampment, each Brave would fan out, encircling the structure. Some would lure their target with sound and movement, others would approach in stealth.

Braves nodded in agreement considering Rost a formidable hunter and a man who walked with honor.  They put their trust in he who could set things right and reunite the captives with their families.

“Do not let the Outlanders see or hear you until it is time. Speak not, take quiet breaths and move as a shadow,” Rost’s words continued. “The Outlanders see us as weak, an easy mark. Make no mistake, the tribe is strong, and we will do what we must to protect our own. Now, all of you-go.”

Even the most prepared can lose their way, the best hunter can fail, but when the opposition cares little for themselves or others, there can be no victory.

Three times they tried and failed to advance at the cost of two lives, and not knowing who had perished for their advance ate at Rost, but it was the agreement with the Outlanders that soured his stomach and burned through his mind. Rost had missed a third sentinel high above who witnessed everything and mimicked the cry of the red-tailed bird that hunted the area for rats.

Words shouted in the dark offered nothing other than a promise of safety for the Nora captives if the warriors departed Devil’s Grief and did not follow.  Hissed arguments between the Braves revealed disagreements and doubts, but all agreed there could be no more loss of life, if the retreat would give their people even a chance at survival, the Braves agreed, putting their trust in Rost. The truce would allow the Outlanders to leave and in return for safe travel, they would release the hostages at the border. Rost acted with the support of the Braves, despite his need to punish those who killed his mate, the safety of Alana and the others had to come first.

“Then we have an agreement!” The smugness of the Outlander’s boisterous laugh and clapping burned Rost’s ears. His arm twitched, begging to reach for an arrow to silence their foe, but a retreat was promised, and Rost signaled for the others to depart, his own eyes still searching the structure for signs of their people. He would remember that laugh and when he heard it again, would silence the throat that mocked him.

The retreat was not out of weakness, but of a need to preserve life. Reassuring hands clasped Rost’s shoulder and arms confirming the belief in his decision, but Rost would not sit idle. Once they pulled the tracking party from Devil’s Grief, Rost set a new plan in motion.

“They will no doubt use the cover of night to move,” he explained, the plan already devised and settled in his mind. “We use the knowledge to track them from a distance; the Brave trails we’ve made to test skills will hide us from the Outlanders.” Rost tapped the map depicted in the dirt. “Two for each of the high trails. One to scout and one to find me at Hunter’s Gathering. The rest will climb the watchtowers in pairs and do the same.”

The plan made sense- relaying the messages without signaling would give them a silent advantage. The question of their destination hung for a moment once asked.

“Dawn’s Sentinel,” offered another Brave, while still another suggested Daytower to the south. Rost was sure this was the breeching point, but for their return he believed the area to the west of their position offered the quickest route.

“Any who do not find an open watchtower will join me at Hunter’s Gathering. If the Outlanders travel west or south, we will be close enough to reach our people no matter which route.”

l-l-l

A hunter learns to read signs others cannot see: a scent on the wind, a change in the air before it rains, and most of all when the hunt ends without the possibility of reward. A sudden wave of loss rose in Rost’s chest, taking him by surprise. From his perch at the watchtower, he wobbled on his feet; the strangeness earning him a few concerned glances.

He’d been so sure of the Outlander’s plan; he hadn’t considered it a ruse-until now. “Quickly, we must hurry!”

Rost couldn’t say how the idea entered his thoughts, but the futility of all they had done spurred his legs to sprint along the pathways toward Daytower. Braves repeatedly questioned Rost, but so focused on his task, Rost remained silent. He refused to admit the thought germinating and taking root. _This was a test. They care not for our people, this was a test of our defenses, of the tribe’s readiness._ He fought the idea, arguing silently as he ran. To admit the truth of this meant Alana was lost.

Limbs burned with the effort, his legs growing ever heavier as they climbed toward the gate. When he saw the gate left open, the bitter taste of failure mixed with bile as he whispered his first word since leaving Hunter’s Gathering. “No.”

On the opposite side of the gate, the Outlanders had left the captives-six in total. All were dead, their throats slit- a final act of cruelty; the pile of bodies lay beyond their reach. He could not discern the difference in the injured. The heap a mess of tanned hide and woven cloth. And then he saw her. A small hand seemed to reach through the pile, he knew the woven bands on her young wrist. Una had tried to show Alana how to weave with the others. Instead, she’d made three tight bands for her to wear. Red, for the sunsets, blue for the skies and yellow for the bright sun. Her delicate fingers rested motionless, frozen in their plea.

He fought against the urge to scream and shout, his daughter had paid for his foolish belief in an Outlander’s promise _. I should have killed them. We should not have retreated. This is my burden-my fault._

To cross the gate was forbidden, even the act of retrieving their loved ones would violate the laws of the tribe and could make them outcasts, forever denied their place among the Nora. He started slow, his legs and feet moving closer to the gate, knowing what it would mean for him, but the others pulled him back. One suggested asking the High Matriarchs for permission to retrieve the murdered, and this thought would carry Rost to his next destination.

Rost turned his back on Daytower gate, ignoring all. He would bear the fault and would make it right, but to do so would require the High Matriarchs’ blessing. There was one who would accept him openly, High Matriarch Teersa. He would seek her guidance-for Alana’s peace.


	3. Chapter 3

Rost sunk to his knees inside the Lodge. “I failed, High Matriarch.” He sighed his final words after sharing all that had occurred.  

Teersa rested her hand on Rost’s shoulder. “No, it is not your burden alone. We cannot sit idle, this is but the beginning. If the Outlanders can cross into Sacred Lands, then we must stay vigilant. I will speak with the others, and we will seek All-Mother’s guidance. Perhaps it is time for us to prepare. Violence breeds more; this victory will bring even more Outlanders to the Sacred Lands.”

“I will not allow another Outlander to step through. There must be a way to build towers, high above and let us see with All-Mother’s eyes to stop them.”

Teersa seemed to consider his words, wearing a crooked smile she agreed. “Yes, yes- an excellent idea Rost. See it done.”

But his pain and sorrow would not be sated. “No, I wish to. . .I seek a way to leave the safety of the Sacred Lands and find those who-”

She held up her hand to stop his words. “No. The lands beyond are forbidden. You are needed here.”

“Una. Alana. I. . .I cannot. Their spirits call to me, I must find a way,” he said. “I will not leave without All-Mother’s blessing.” He rose, head and shoulders bent with the weight of his loss. Candles flickered and extinguished from his movement, the sight of their light snuffed by him weighing deeper with each step. He heard the High Matriarch speak his name in a near whisper, calling him to turn and face her.

Age slowed her but a little, but she did not speak again until she stood close enough to whisper. “There is a way, but the cost may be more than even you will pay, Rost.”

Unfazed Rost refused to back down. “I will do whatever must be done. If we stand together, the Nora will send a message to those who would harm us.”

 The slow and deliberate shake of her head preceded heavy words. “The strength to stand alone is the strength to make a stand. It is a lonely path, no companions save your bow and lance.”

He considered her words for but a moment; conviction sharpened his voice and straightened his posture. “Then I will stand alone for the good of the tribe, but at what cost, High Matriarch?”

“There is but one cost.” Teersa turned from him, reaching into a clay pot. She lifted her hand revealing a thin coating of white ash. “Your life. To become a Death Seeker, you must give up your life, your spirit to become All-Mother’s vengeance.” Teersa blew the ash from her hand. “Rost will be no more. Vengeance does not speak, it moves in silence and shadow. If this is what you wish, we can make you the knife that delivers Her wrath.”  

“And once I have delivered All Mother’s wrath?”

Wiping the residue away, she clasped her hands together. The hint of sadness on her face answered his question before Teersa spoke. “There is no return-only death.”

No hesitation impeded his response, and he stood replying without taking a breath. “Very well. I choose death.”

The High Matriarch pressed her lips together. “Then ready yourself. You may remain here at Mother’s Heart until we are prepared.” She ushered Rost from the Lodge, instructing him to help any who needed. “We must wait for the Moon to return. Only at her full light can the ritual take place.”

Weeks passed for Rost in a haze of toil and aid to any and all. He aided in the construction of a stronger gate for Mother’s Heart, until it soared high above, with battlements and heavy doors. He slept at the campfire, refusing offers of hospitality. Hunting most mornings without help, Rost’s hauls fed many without taking for himself until all who hungered ate before him.

At night, Rost studied the machines. Docile and unaware, he learned their habits, taking down stragglers for armor and weapons, crafting for himself and any who asked. He worked in silence most days, saying nothing and answering in simple nods. He grieved when none saw him, quiet tears in the fullness of night were banished with the dawn’s first light. Throughout his endeavors, Rost noted the ever-increasing light of the moon, waiting patiently for the day of his death.

Rain kept him awake; the bright light of the moon uncovered by the clouds revealing his wait had ended. A Brave from the Lodge found him.  “The High Matriarchs wait for you. Bring all you can carry.” The Brave said nothing more and left Rost on the path.

Confident steps carried him through the village, all but a few Braves nodded in his direction before disappearing into their homes. He guessed quiet news had passed to some; perhaps they knew of his plan or may have guessed he waited for an event of some importance, but the gesture of respect from those who met his eyes steeled his resolve.

The darkness of the lodge quickened his pulse. He had never seen the seat of the High Matriarchs without the full glow of torches and candles. No fire burned in the hearth, and the cold prickling hand of fear gripped his. _Steady_. He willed his fear to leave him. Rost stood still and inhaled, but something in the air irritated his nose and throat.  Pungent and acrid, he hurried deeper into the lodge, concerned the silence and darkness signs of trouble.

Taking a breath to call out to the High Matriarchs, Rost stopped; the harsh realization of what lay before him stealing his voice. _There is nothing wrong; this is what I have asked of All-Mother._ All warmth had left the lodge, and the deeper he walked into the shadows Rost understood. _I go to meet death._ He’d never ventured this far; most were not permitted deep into the mountain.

His eyes adjusted to the dark; a strange red glow ahead of him outlined three figures. _This is All-Mother’s heart_ , he thought. While many questions filled his head, he dared not speak. To the left of the figures a small cistern smoldered, and the scent he’d detected earlier grew stronger with each step.

A fleeting memory widened his eyes in recognition. _The bitterness of loss. . . the perfume of the dead._ He recalled the prayers over the lifeless when his mother and father died; the now familiar scent hanging low around him. Without permission his heart beat faster, fear and dread rising from his core. Rost realized he’d never asked more of the High Matriarch; he’d simply agreed.

Rost knew fear, every hunter faces it. He’d stood face to face with his in Alana’s capture. The memory of her paled skin and blood-soaked clothes pushed him forward. _For her, whatever I must do._

 A strange cot rested on the ground near the cistern, a cross between a pyre and bed, Rost needed no direction. He left his weapons in a pile next to his pack. He’d been prepared for weeks. Without acknowledging the figures, he took his place on the cot.

Words floated in the darkness, but Rost remained silent. The dead do not speak, he repeated silently. Behind his closed eyes, Rost envisioned Una’s soft smile and reassuring glances. Alana stood with her, slipping in the occasional silliness he loved. He felt the tear break free of his eye, and for a moment the drone of voices stopped.

A soft whisper of comfort in his ear strengthened Rost’s heart and mind, before the sting of blade signaled his end.

l-l-l

At first, Rost opened his eyes to cold and silence. Unsure where he was, his memories reminded him of the ritual. His face cracked as he tried to move his mouth, something had dried on his skin. Another flash of remembrance recalled the edge of a blade on his skin. Reaching for his chest, a slight ridge and residual sting confirmed his thoughts. In the muted red glow of All-Mother’s heart, he saw the exaggerated paleness of his hands and wondered what he had become.

A Death Seeker borne of all Mother’s vengeance against her children. Rost gathered his weapons and pack, finding it heavier than he remembered. _All Mother has provided for my journey_ , he thought, offering thanks before he departed.

Rost first steps outside revealed a changed world. No fires burned in the village. All had fallen dark and cold. In the moon’s full light, he stopped and stared at his skin; every part of his exposed skin coated with a greyish-white powder cracked and flaked as he moved. A cursory sniff nearly caused him to cough, the bitterness catching in his nose.

To his left he heard something stir, unsure if human or animal, Rost had to leave the village before he was seen. _Now is not the time to question, you must reach the gates before morning._ His path to the gate was littered with offerings and gifts. A hooded cloak greeted him first. Folded and laid on the path, there was no mistaking someone had meant the clothing for him. Steps further down the path left food, others packs of herbs and still others supplies for his weapons. He collected each, touched by the generosity of those he knew.

 _It’s over now_ , he thought, slipping the cloak around him and obscuring his face. The village gate, left open likely hid a Brave in its shadow. When Rost passed through, the gate closed separating him from the tribe.

Rost kept off the paths, scaled hills and hid in the deeper woods on the trek toward Daytower gate. When he passed Mother’s Crown, he took time to wash the ash and paste from his skin. Once he reached Daytower, he would cull the Outlanders starting with those who had not stopped the massacre of the Nora.


	4. Chapter 4

For a hunter, the prey does not change the hunt, only the skill needed. Rost hunted men, Outlanders who had wronged the tribe and taken his mate and child. Hidden at the entrance to Daytower, Rost had slipped inside when a careless Outsider left his post. He died staring wide eyed into Rost’s hardened face, but the man’s blood wasn’t enough. Rost took his clothing and armor, passing among his enemies freely.

Careful steps and cautious moves governed his time at Daytower until the company slept. He found the dead on the mountain hill cast aside, their lives nothing to the Outlanders. Ignoring the state of decay and the heady odor of death in the air, Rost found what remained of his child.  His grief and pain blinded him, not seeing her as she was now, but his mind showed him a smiling child, happy and eager to return home.

Fury had made him blind, and in his rage the path of wrath laid before him. None breathed when Rost finally paused; his heavy breaths and heavier limbs revealed he’d not stopped once he’d begun. Rost’s hands and body carried the mingled blood of those who had once stood watch.

Discarding his soiled Outlander armor, Rost donned the mantle of the Nora once more and returned to Alana. Only now did he see the blackened grass mixed with decay, the sloughed skin and lost hair making him gasp. The overwhelming odor nearly stopped his ministrations. He could not bring the bodies back, not with the insects covering the remaining skin and bite marks from the animals. He would burn them. 

Struggling through his work, Rost collected mementos from the six, including the bone necklace he had fashioned for Alana. He tucked his daughter’s trinket into his pack, renewing his vow to find the ones who stole her life and committed the bodies of those who perished to All Mother’s care through a burning pyre. The bodies of the Outlanders received no such honor, he stacked them in a storage room and broke the lock; only an axe would afford another entry.

The little he’d collected, Rost sealed in a hide pouch and returned it to Mother’s Heart during full dark; affixed to the gate, he knew the remembrances would find their way home and the High Matriarchs could at last give the dead a proper ritual. It was his final act within the Embrace, and Rost set off in search of his purpose and death in the Forbidden Lands.

Weeks of moving among the Outlanders, listening to their boasts as he traveled with them only strengthened his view. The Outlanders were savage, uncaring and killers all. The further into the west he moved Rost heard nothing of the tribe, no stories of conquests passed at the fires or at meals.

His return to east passed in a blur, no longer caring if someone saw him. The red tinted rock face of the hills and valleys before him earned little admiration as the months passed. Any who challenged him died a swift death, left for the beasts and the sun to devour their corpses. Keeping to the western paths, Rost sought information.  

He’d hunted for trade, purchased clothing to blend in without raising suspicions, but most of all Rost listened, hidden in shadows and corners his turned his ear to those who sought to tell their story; listening for clues to the ones he sought. He learned to walk among throngs of people and draw no attention. A rare rain descended on the valley; chased from his task indoors, Rost overheard what he’d been hoping to find among the Outlanders.

Two men spoke in whispers. “You’re wrong. No one has breached the Nora’s lands.”

“I swear by the Sun, I heard the story at Lone Light,” he leaned closer and looked around, but missed the lurker behind him. “There’s a guard there who swears he was part of the battle.”

 _Lone Light_ , Rost thought, he remembered the outpost.

“They carry the colors of the savage Nora defeated in battle.”

Rost nearly gave away his hidden corner at the lie. _A child is not a savage; these cowards deserve nothing other than a swift end._ Far too much time had passed, he’d seen to their dead, and to the families he’d offered remembrances of those taken too soon, but the killers had eluded him. If Lone Light could set him right, then he would go.

l-l-l

A small settlement, Lone Light proved to be a waystation on the road to Meridian. Unsure of how much time passed on his trek to the east, Rost arrived when almost all had fallen asleep. Dressed in an Oseram craftsman’s garb, he wandered through the sparse settlement, and settled at a bench to wait.

Across the dusty plain, a lone guard approached and sat across from him. With no prodding, the man leaned forward and spoke of his trip far to the east. Rost barely listened, concerned he would give away the ruse too soon. His thoughts strayed to the hunt that day the killers took Una away from him.

_Crouched in the brush, Rost motioned for Alana to join him. “Hush. The bird scares easily, but if you are quiet and patient, he will come to you.”_

_Rost slipped the bow free and pulled an arrow, to Alana’s horror. Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No, don’t hurt it.”_

_He smiled, relaxing his arm. “What do you think a hunt is for Alana?”_

_“Can I keep it instead?”_

_Rubbing his face, Rost hid the sigh looming in his chest. “No, you cannot keep a turkey,”_

_Her huff of disappointment scared the bird, its warble growing fainter as it ran away. “Why?”_

_He needed an answer, something final so he could finish the hunt with more than a few fish. A side glance toward his daughter revealed a deepening pout, and only one excuse would end it. “Because your mother would not allow it, and it would force one or both of us to sleep outside.”_

_At the thought of losing her bed, Alana crouched and waddled further into the grass calling after the turkey._

It took one sentence and a laugh to break Rost’s reverie.

“They even armed a child,” the guard said before throwing back his head and laughing. “Can you believe it? A child?”

The seasons had nearly cycled full, but Rost had never forgotten the mocking laugh of the Outlander who had lied. “You lied to me.” Rost’s hand shot forward, grabbing the guard’s wrist. His steeled gray eyes bored into the man’s shocked face, Rost’s voice remained quiet as he spoke in taut words. “The child was not armed. None of them were. You promised their safety and instead you killed my child.” Without breaking his glare, Rost read the mounting fear, breathing sped, eyes darted around for an escape. “Now you are the captured. Tell me where the rest hide.”

The man tried to pull away, but Rost’s grip tightened, his reflexes prepared for the attempt at flight.

“I don’t-”

With a harsh yank, Rost pulled the guard to his feet, demanding an answer. “Tell me!”

The destination fell without hesitation. “You’ll let me live?”

A simple nod answered in vagueness what Rost knew he could not promise. His grip still firm, Rost spun the man around and forced him to his knees Right hand searching at his side, Rost pulled his dagger free. “You will never harm another life.” His cut was swift, unsatisfying. Deep enough to for the man to bleed, he would die before Rost’s boot crossed into the wild to resume the hunt.     

The destination lay near where his journey had begun; a testing ground for hunters near to Daytower provided the final piece. The old hunter on the hill pointed to Rost’s clothing. “You one of them who killed those Outlanders?” At first Rost thought they had discovered him until he realized it was his dress that drew the old man’s attention-he was the Outlander. Rost answered with honesty. “I am of the Nora, or I was. You have seen my armor on others?”

“Trophies only, carried like a badge of honor.” The old man spat. “There’s no honor in taking the lives of women and children. It proves nothing.” The man leaned closer to the campfire and nodded slowly; his face creased and weathered like the rocks of the valley. “The group will boast to any willing to listen to their story and that is where the danger lies. The Sun King didn’t call for Nora blood; he knew nothing of the plan, but once he learns he commands those willing? None of your children will sleep safe again.” The man drew lines in the dirt and the more Rost watched, he realized the old hunter showed him the way in crude pathways and landmarks. “Go to Dawn’s Sentinel. They wear your colors. From one father to another, see none of them draw breath in the valley ever again.”

The two talked, and in the old hunter’s words, Rost found kindred. This Outlander had given him a place to rest without fear, an ear to bend without judgment and delivered the final piece to find those responsible. Evening came and Rost without means to pay the old hunter did what he knew best. Hours later he’d brought back several turkeys and foxes and a boar slung over his shoulder. “Thank you, it isn’t nearly enough, but will have to do.” He worked preparing one bird, cleaning it, slicing it as he’d done so many times before while the two men talked. He roasted the meat and offered it to the hunter. “The rest I leave with you; be well.” Rost prepared to leave.

“You’re not what I expected,” the hunter said, asking Rost to stay and share the meal. “I’d never expected a Nora to be anything like you. I expected to die, and here you offer kindness.”  

He held back the sigh. “You expected a savage, someone incapable of gratitude and kindness? Your people committed this act, and I,” he sighed, slinging his pack across his body, “I am no different now, a savage who seeks their end and my own, but the Nora should be left alone.”

The hunter stood. “We say _walk in the Sun’s light_. It is a reminder to speak only truth, strike in righteousness and act as the Sun bids us.” He shook his head. “This act was not as the Sun bid, it was cruelty.” Meeting Rost’s eyes again, he continued. “We know what waits in the coldness of the Moon. Stillness and death lurk there, but you cannot deny the nature of either, for they are two halves-Sun and Shadow to deny one is to deny the nature of things. You, friend, walk in the Moon’s light and avenge your mate and child, but I will pray to the dawn you will walk in the Sun’s light soon enough.”

 Rost nodded, knowing his task would end his days. He had failed to bring Alana home, only her necklace traveled with him, another failed promise. _Forgive me, Una. Forgive me Alana. Wait but a little longer for me._ He left the hunting grounds and turned to the north, the hunter’s map clear in his mind. When the glow of the campfire no longer could be seen, Rost stopped and dug his daughter’s necklace from his pack. The polished bone paled in the moon’s light. He’d carved it from a boar’s leg bone, it took days to perfect it, tapping the holes, smoothing the edges, all under Alana’s scrutinizing eyes. He felt the discomfort of sadness rising once more and clutched the trinket in his hand tighter and tighter until it hurt.

Rost pulled a strip of leather from his pack and threaded it through the topmost hole, tying a series of knots to secure it. Slipping her necklace over his head, he tucked the bone charm under his clothing to remind him why he’d taken the journey. He’d reach the Carja gate soon enough.

Dawn’s Sentinel was nothing more than a gate and watchtowers, only the rock face would give him any cover, and to rely on the laziness of the Outlanders irresponsible. High on the precipice, Rost counted eleven men. He’d scaled the rock face, keeping watch on every man’s path and movement. A lone guard in the southern watchtower fell without a sound, his aim flawless despite his anger. _Ten_. From his hidden perch, Rost’s keen eyes homed in on each wearing a band of bright blue and orange tied on some part of their person; arm bands, a belt, several even hung the swaths of cloth from their weapons. _Stolen from the homes they destroyed._

Removing his bow, Rost nocked an arrow, testing the bowstring and taking aim without releasing; he saw each death in his head. Across from him the sentinel in the north watchtower leaned against the wall, exposing his side to a swift end. 

 _Nine_. 

Another silent arrow pierced the head of one, stooping below to drink from the river’s cool waters.

 _Eight_.

He could manage one perhaps two more before they discovered him. One must have heard the guard splash as he fell, and when he ventured closer calling for his companion to wake up, Rost cut through the back of his neck with two more arrows.

 _Seven_.

He shifted his pack and hurried down the ladder, careful to wait as a guard passed him below. Pulling his knife Rost fell upon his enemy and nearly severed the guard’s head.

 _Six_.

Shouts and cries of alarm rang through the valley just as Rost tried to descend the second ladder.  He felt the sting of an arrow in his calf. Breaking the shaft, he continued his descent. Three guards charged him, two of them connected with his back. Fluid, warm and viscous mixed with the sweat of skin, but Rost turned, his lance striking the guard closest to him before a harsh jab of the blade stabbed through the guard’s neck.

 _Five_.

The remaining two backed away, neither wishing to die, but unable to let Rost escape.  “Give up, _Nora_.”

Rost said nothing, anger clamping his jaw shut, his nostrils flared and grip tightened on his lance. Nothing more than animals, he reminded himself before charging.

 _Four_. 

The other guard hadn’t been prepared for Rost’s attack but swung his blade low enough to slice through his hide armor and cut the skin beneath.

They faced each other, Rost seeing the man in front of him an obstacle he needed to pass. Raising his lance to his right, a vicious stab staggered the Carja guard, but not before the tip of his opponent’s blade punctured Rost’s chest. Unsteady and clutching his wound, Rost finished his foe before he fell to his knee.

 _Three_.

Reaching for his bow once more, Rost grimaced and cried out from the pain radiating across his chest, but his arrow found its mark, and one of the two remaining guards cried out, trying to run through the open gate, his blood spilling as he ran. 

He’d missed, and that would mean Rost failed if the guard escaped. _Ignore the pain, death waits. Finish this._ Despite the searing pain as his muscles struggled to pull back, he heard the stretch of sinew as far as he could, trying to focus on the fleeing guard. Taking aim, he exhaled, leading the target and waiting. When the guard removed his helmet, he shouted at this companion to run. Rost remained still a second more and then held his breath.

The swift and silent path of his wrath snapped the fleeing man’s head back as the arrow embedded in his skull.  Weakened by his injuries, Rost’s strike had not been a clean kill; the guard would suffer until he died.

 _Two_.

One more waited below. One more life before his work was done. One more animal to kill before he could rest. Rost knew the bleeding wouldn’t kill him, even the stab on his chest wasn’t deep enough to kill, but his movement slowed, making him a far easier target, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet.  

The remaining guard removed his helmet and tossed it aside. “The great Nora tribe sends only one? You think you can beat me and return home? Come on then.” He goaded Rost, dared him to fight.

The problem was Rost didn’t have the strength to best him. His limbs had grown heavy, less nimble, and he doubted in a contest of hand combat he’d win. Rost’s bag rested at his feet and he realized the means lay within the hide and woven bag Una had made him. The bombs he’d taken from Daytower. He’d seen their power, but Rost knew little on how they worked. He guessed it was the impact that triggered the explosion and flame and dug the metal container out of his pack. He’d need distance and hoped his place above the ladder would prove enough.

“How does this work?” He shouted to the last man standing. Rost had two options, if the man tried to run, he could hunt him with his remaining arrows, but if all it took was an impact, Rost held out the metal canister and waited for a reaction.

“Typical Nora, picking up useless scrap!”

Rost heard the man’s words, but watched his feet, in slow and measured steps the man eased away. _So, it’s not useless._ He tossed the metal casing up and caught it, amused at the frightened reaction he witnessed. “If it is scrap, then what harm to throw it away?” Rost’s expression hardened putting every bit of his strength and rage into his throw. A burst of flame and metal shards exploded on impact, Rost’s body pushed violently into the rock behind him before falling to his knees, winded. He coughed, blood spattering on the wood planks in front of him.

Struggling to rise, Rost realized his new injuries were two-fold; his lance edge cut deep into his shoulder, despite the blade pulling free with minimal effort, he would bleed without healing and bandages, but the more pressing wounds were the small cuts on his neck and face, just deep enough to bleed freely.


	5. Chapter 5

“I will,” he winced rising to his feet, “I will not die here on this forsaken land.” He groaned attempting to descend the ladder to the ground and struggled with the added weight of his weapons and pack with his injured shoulder. Weakened and exhausted, Rost slipped halfway down the ladder landing on his back. Shards of metal embedded in his arms and legs the unprotected skin pierced.

He laid still until the dawn came, his mind growing more detached.

_Is it done?_

Rost’s throat, dry and cracked whispered to the one he saw looming over him. “Una.”

_Is it done?_

Vision or demon he did not know, but nodded in reply.

_Then come home._

Rost groaned with the effort to move, each new pain overshadowing the last. His body now a symphony of increasing agony each tiny move explodes behind his eyes and tears his flesh. The voice in his head urges him to leave the tainted land and return to All-Mother. Hours pass in torment and anguish his progress slow as hands reached blindly ahead grasping nothing but rock until his wounded fingers touched a soothing coolness. His arid lungs and throat can taste the morning air, and the dew on his fingers reached his lips. He croaked a single word. “Home.”

l-l-l

Grata scouted on ahead of the party, she bored with the chatter and longed for a few moments of silence. They usually not ventured this close to the border, but since Mother’s Vigil everything had changed. Thinking on the loss of her mate and sons, Grata had prayed every day for Rost’s success. She knew he had not died; she searched every village to find him. Those who knew Rost claimed he’d disappeared likely lost to the wilds, but Grata knew better.  Rost hunted a new prey; she believed he searched for the killers who took everything from her. She knew his mate, his daughter, and she knew his strength. Rost had not given up, she wore the proof around her neck, the ancient charm her mate had found as a boy had been returned; it proved Rost lived.

To the west lay the edge of the Sacred Lands, and for Grata she said a silent prayer for Rost. Her eyes scanned the western edge of the mountain ridge; the snow thicker at the base meant little chance of finding the pelts they sought. A glint of metal caught her eye, a large heap sat at the crossroads, Grata unable to determine if beast or machine. Unafraid and with hurried strides she realized it was a man.

Breaking into a full run, Grata reached the man and turned him, gasping in recognition. Crouching to speak, she rested her hand against his face, and his eyes fluttered. “Una. It is done.” His head fell to the side and for a moment Grata was sure he had died until the slight movement of his chest set her heart at ease. She worked quickly, forcing his body to rise enough and tipping her healing potions into his mouth a little at a time.

When the party reached her, she took control and ordered the younger Braves to gather wood. They would take him to Hunter’s Gathering. Within days, word spread throughout the Sacred Lands and brought the High Matriarchs to seek the one thought lost. Grata stood watch over the small hut, turning all away until the three approached.

“Has he spoken?” High Matriarch Teersa spoke, despite Lansra and Jezza’s protestations. With a gentle raised hand, she asked her question again.

Grata answered with the truth. “When I found him, he called to me as though I were his mate and said only _it is done_.”

“Thank you,” Teersa responded, and with nothing more than a slight gesture, asked Grata to move aside.  “He is well?”

Nodding, Grata moved aside, opening the door for the High Matriarchs.  Inside the small room, Rost lay on a cot, his chest wrapped in bandages and covered in herbal balms.  

The arguments began in hushed whispers as soon as Rost’s presence registered.

“He cannot return!” Lansra led the opposition. “The Braves should have killed him there where he lay.”

Jezza disagreed. “How were they to know? We made no claim to his end, we announced no crime. We sent him in secret!”

“Sisters, please.” Teersa pulled a chair closer to Rost’s bedside and spoke to him. “You brought peace to those who felt the deepest loss.”

Rost nodded, closing his eyes again. “I must follow the law. I am ready.”

A long deep exhale filled the small room. “The law is wrong.” Teersa turned to the others. “He stood alone for the good of the tribe and returned from death. We must recognize the wisdom of All-Mother. She saw to his return, and must have a path for this man to follow.”

“The law is the law, and you are not above it.”

“Yes, Lansra, yes.” Teersa stood. “Then we follow it now. We will cast Rost out. The small training site near Mother’s Heart, surely All-Mother would see a life within the Embrace as payment for the good he has done.”

Jezza agreed without hesitation. “There are those who still seek news of him, as an outcast these tales and questions would end.” She stepped aside. “We abandoned the site when the Embrace Gates were completed. A suitable space.”

It took Lansra several more minutes to agree, but once all three had finished the High Matriarchs asked Grata to see Rost to his new home. At first, the news of his punishment deterred her, but after High Matriarch Teersa asked Grata to see to it, she agreed with some reluctance.

Under cover of night, Rost and Grata set out across the Embrace. He knew better than to speak, despite his gratefulness that Grata had seen fit to repair his bow and lance, and even stitched the tear in his pouch. Within hours, they arrived at the training site, and even with the house half-finished, Rost knew he’d received a gift unworthy of his efforts. He’d failed to return the fallen members home. He’d failed to fulfill his task as a Death Seeker. Why All-Mother sought to spare him, Rost did not understand.

Grata stood with her back to him, her feet pointed toward the path leading to Mother’s Heart. “All-Mother’s gifts are plentiful; one only has to keep both eyes open to see them.”

Rost hid the smile on his face. _Thank you Grata_ , he said silently.   

She took several steps and raised her voice. “May All-Mother bless this place and all those who seek comfort within her arms.” Grata said nothing more, shifting the bow at her back, and in slow even steps she walked away.

l-l-l

The Eve of the Proving. . .

Rost’s memories faded away with the last of the sun’s rays melting into twilight. “Tomorrow is the Proving,” he said to the night air. “Aloy will be a Brave, but I cannot remain. She would break the law to honor me and in that act, I cannot allow her to do so.” Rost planned to leave the Sacred Lands. As an outcast, none would question him. “I know I failed you and Alana. I didn’t protect you-either of you. It means little, but I will see Aloy succeed.”

The whisper of the wind crossed his face and neck, it was not Una who answered, but he heard her voice in his head. _May All-Mother watch over you when I cannot_.


End file.
